“Describe her.”
I tried, stumbled, and halted. The effort evoked in my mind a picture of Lola lithe, seductive, exotic, with gold flecks in her dusky, melting eyes, with strong shapely arms that had as yet only held me motherwise, with her pantherine suggestion of tremendous strength in languorous repose, with her lazy gestures and parted lips showing the wonderful white even teeth, with all her fascination and charm—a picture of Lola such as I had not seen since my emergence from the Valley—a picture of Lola, generous, tender, wistful, strong, yielding, fragrant, lovable, desirable, amorous—a picture of Lola which I could not put before this other woman equally brave and straight, who looked at me composedly out of her calm, blue eyes.
My description resolved itself into a loutish catalogue.
“It is not painful to you to talk of her, Simon?”
“Not at all. There are not many great-hearted women going about. It is my privilege to know two.”
“Am I the other?”
“Who else?”
“I'm glad you have the courage to class Madame Brandt and myself together.”
“Why?” I asked.
“It proves beyond a doubt that you are honest with me. Now tell me about a few externals—things that don't matter—but help one to form an impression. Is she educated?”